10. King’s Ransom
King’s Ransom
Asher
Despite almost dying of hypothermia, I finally make my way back to the retreat.
I grab a to-go coffee and lounge around in the heated lobby so that I can avoid King back at our suite.
When half an hour has passed, I request a key for our suite and make my way back, hoping I’ll have some time alone.
Pressing the wooden key card to the door, it clicks open, and relief washes over me when I realize King’s gone already.
I slam the door behind me harder than I meant to; the wood groans, and the frame rattles.
But I don’t care.
I’m still fuming. The suite smells like him, something spicy, like cinnamon.
Probably his bodywash. The room is warm, and there’s a low fire burning in the fireplace.
Outside, snow begins to fall softly, flakes brushing against the large windows.
It’s too quiet—too still for the chaos boiling under my skin.
I can still feel the way the snow seeped into my knees as I knelt on the forest floor. The sting of shame on my tongue, the heat of his gaze when he ordered me around.
Like I’m some kind of fucking pet.
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, both from the cold and the humiliation. A part of me wants to hit something—or someone. My hands shake as I remove the heated jacket, and when I pull the damp wet suit off, I can’t ignore the worst part about all of this.
My cock springs free, heavy and hard. It throbs, but I resist the urge to touch myself.
Because as angry as I am, there was some sick part of me that liked it.
I pull on a dry robe and pace the length of the suite. My fists curl tight at my sides, and I go from feeling cold to burning up inside.
I shouldn’t be hard.
I shouldn’t still be hard.
But the more I think about it, the worse it gets, especially when my fingers graze the collar around my neck. The weight of it—of what it means—sinks deep into me, making everything feel heavy and throbbing.
“Good boy.”
God, what an asshole. His low, sultry voice—the way I knelt so easily, the way I obeyed.
The way I enjoyed pleasing him.
“Fuck,” I hiss, dragging a hand down my face. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I work. I’m straight. I’ve never been attracted to men—sober, at least.
My cock aches, and every brush of the robe against the sensitive head only makes things worse.
I glance at the door. I’m alone—King is gone. I’ll hear his shoes crunch on the snow outside, hear the beep of the key card before he walks in.
Without thinking, I pull the robe apart and wrap a hand around my length, using my other hand to brace myself against the wall, muttering a curse.
My cock is flushed, aching, and already leaking precum.
I wrap my hand around it and squeeze—too hard. Out of spite. Fuck him.
The first stroke is rough. Frustrated.
I close my eyes. I tell myself I’m thinking of someone else. Anyone else.
But he’s still there. Standing over me in that forest. Unmoving. Waiting. Dominating without even lifting a finger.
I bite back a groan and stroke again, faster now, using my precum from the tip as lube.
I tell myself this isn’t about the pleasure. Not really. It’s about proving something. Taking back control.
My breath falters. My thighs tense, toes curling against the carpet. I tighten my grip, like I’m trying to chase the shame out of me. I spit into my hand and stroke harder. The shame and the feel of my cool hand around my cock makes me groan, and when I close my eyes, I imagine it’s not my hand.
I can almost convince myself it’s not.
I rut into my hand, chasing my orgasm like I’m on a time limit, because I kind of am on a time limit. I picture King behind me, hand on the back of my neck, mouth against my ear.
His cock between my lips, pressing against the back of my throat.
His hands in my hair.
His breath hot and low as he says, “Good boy.”
I swear under my breath, but the visual doesn’t leave me.
The feel of strong, large hands on the back of my head. Pumping the base of a thick cock, swirling my tongue around a thick, purple head, tasting him.
Fuck.
I shudder as my balls draw up, as I imagine how he’d hold my mouth in place and fuck it—hard, deep, solely for his pleasure.
The feel of his cock beginning to pulse with his release. The taste of his cum, the sounds of his groans, the way his fingers would claw into my skull, not letting me go, not letting me up for air…
“Fuck, King,” I gasp, heady sensations rippling over every nerve ending of my body.
I’m so close—my balls tighten, cock hardening, and then?—
“Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”
His voice cuts through the fog exactly as I come.
I choke on the sound, my release crashing through me in a full-body jolt. My orgasm tears itself out of me with a groan I don’t have time to swallow. The feeling is so intense that my knees buckle, and I squeeze my eyes shut. The only sounds are the heavy splats of my cum hitting the carpet.
When I open my eyes a few seconds later, he’s there. Leaning against the doorframe. Watching. His dark eyes are nearly black, swallowed by his dilated pupils.
My hand is still on my cock, and my chest rises and falls in sharp, frantic puffs.
Shame doesn’t even begin to cover it.
My cheeks burn like I’ve been slapped, heat roaring into my face as I cover myself with the robe, wrapping it tightly around my body.
“Jesus—fuck—how long have you been standing there?”
He steps into the room slowly. “Long enough.”
I yank the robe tighter around me. “Get out.”
He doesn’t move. He’s dressed in dark sweatpants and a dark green sweatshirt. The rugged-looking jacket he’s wearing plus the violent expression on his face only makes him look more like a predator than he already is.
“You seem… worked up,” he says, voice like velvet. His jaw tics.
My heart is racing. My cock is still hard under the robe, traitorous and aching despite coming.
“Fuck you. You don’t get to do that,” I grit out. “You don’t get to walk in and—fuck with me like that.”
He walks closer, each step heavy with dominance. “You said my name.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
He gives me a slow, knowing smile. “Liar.”
“I didn’t—this has nothing to do with you. ”
“Don’t insult both of us by pretending it doesn’t have everything to do with me.”
He’s right in front of me now. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the gravity of him.
I lift my chin, defiant even with shame crawling up my spine. “So what, you’re jealous? You wanted to help me or something?”
His gaze drops to my lap. “No. But you wanted me. And you took it. Without asking.” Then he meets my eyes again, and the arousal swirling in his irises makes my mouth go dry.
My stomach flips. I can’t speak, and my breath is an uneven mess.
He leans in just slightly. Not enough to touch. Just enough to intimidate me.
“Next time,” he says softly, “ask.”
His hand brushes the side of my face.
I don’t flinch, but I don’t lean in, either. I stand there, motionless, blood thudding in my ears, skin flushed and hot.
He straightens again, composed as ever, and walks out.
The door closes behind him.
I sit on the bed, cock still aching, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I don’t move.
And I can’t stop playing those words around in my mind like a loop.
“Next time, ask.”